Sympathy For The Devil
by woodbyne
Summary: Matthew summons a familiar that he's sure will get him noticed - mages always try to out-do each other, seeing how powerful a familiar they can control. But Matthew might have bitten off more than he can chew. Vague reference to Good Omens and Trinity Blood. Gift fic for GreyMoth. Swearing, implication of violence, heavy suggestion of romance. Enjoy.


**Gift fic for GreyMoth, who wanted Wizard!Matthew and Demon!Alfred, and Alfred causing havoc, but Matthew not really minding. Um. Well, that was how this started. The end… I don't know what happened. I need to stop listening to Gregorian Masters of Chant while I type, it makes me wax poetic and does all sorts of weird shit to my plotlines. I hope you like it!**

**Dezba – Navajo; he who goes to war.**

**PoH will be updated as soon as I possibly can, I swear! **

**Sympathy for the Devil – The Rolling Stones**

_Pleased to meet you  
Hope you guess my name, oh yeah  
But what's puzzling you  
Is the nature of my game_

Cool indigo eyes narrowed against his wind-whipped hair as Matthew Williams regarded the white glow of the summoning circle on the floor as it fast faded from blinding white to a sickeningly bloody red.

The runes danced, shifting like the sands of time as they moved, constantly changing meaning and language, most of which the Panzer Magier recognised, but some of which he didn't. Which considering that it was a demonic contract wasn't entirely a good thing.

Yes, Matthew Williams, Canadian mage was summoning a demonic familiar. This was generally deemed to be utterly fucking stupid, but that was what he was going for. Mages were always judged by the power of the familiars they were able to summon and control. And apparently a violent and blood-thirsty frost-bear just wasn't impressive enough to get him noticed.

So a demon it was. He had done if before, for smaller spells, messages and other such menial things. But those were lower level demons. This was – should things go accordingly to plan - was one of Hell's upper echelons. Ah, something was starting.

Red, white and blue sparks were spitting from the previously-chalk circle, and the light emanating from it was slowly fading. With one blinding white flash, a figure appeared.

Matthew blinked owlishly behind his glasses, trying to help his eyes adjust as quickly as possible. The last thing he really wanted to be standing there with his guard down with a high level demon in the room.

"You called?" A thick southern accent drawled, and the Canadian was completely taken aback. American. He had summoned an American demon. How many of those could there possibly be in hell? Actually, never mind that. America was a big place, there was bound to be a few ambitious evil souls down there. This was apparently one of them.

"Yes, demon of eblis, I charge you to-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, cut the bullshit. Name's Alfred Jones," the demon's voice was low and rumbling, and in the back of Matthew's mind, he couldn't help but compare it to the groaning of advance tanks on the front lines. However, as interesting as that was, the Canadian was quite focused on the fact that he had managed to summon a demon who went by the name _Alfred_. Of all the beasts that lurked in Hell, he had to get the one that didn't sound scary at all. Belphegor, Belial, Asmodeus, Behemoth, Leviathan; all of these were appropriately impressive names, and yet the one before him had to go by _Alfred_. Not only that. Alfred _Jones_. He sounded like a handyman. Worse than that, he sounded like a nice guy. The kind that had once sat in the kitchen eating mother's apple pie with a glass of milk to wash it down.

He didn't even _look_ scary.

If Matt were to be brutally honest, he was really rather attractive, in a slightly off-kilter way. His hair was a shade that could be golden, but wasn't quite, and reminded the mage of something he'd seen years ago; mustard gas. Alfred's skin was tanned, like he had spent a long time in a warm, sunny place. A smile lit his face, and though it looked friendly, the images that jumped to mind were not. The demon's gums were a raw, bloody red, and his sharp teeth were a glinting white, reminiscent of the glint of light on a blade, or the blinding spark of muzzle flash. Probably the same height as Matthew, give or take a hair, but whereas Matthew was long and lean, this Alfred was broad. He looked like he could seriously do someone damage if he was called to. A shifting image of those wide hands holding weapons, beating opponents flashed through the mage's mind, and he shivered.

"So," Alfred's voice cracked like gunshot through Matthew's thoughts, "Why don't you tell me your name?" There was an air of militant authority in that easy tone that had the words,

"Matthew Williams, Panzer Magier, level eight," tumbling from his lips before he could stop himself. The demon nodded approvingly.

"Well, I'm impressed," Alfred's laughter sounded like cannon fire, "A lowly level eight managed to call me up," the Canadian was given an appraising sweep with preternaturally blue eyes, "But a tank mage? You an' me are going to get on just _fine_," the American drawled, another hidden dagger smile glinting on his face.

Matthew's eyes narrowed suspiciously. What did he being a tank mage have to do with anything? Tank mages were soldiers, front-liners in battle. The cast large-scale spells of assault or defence- and were subsequently terrible at the more delicate aspects of sorcery. While he was good at Shields, his speciality was a volley of medium- to heavy-damage explosions. It wasn't easy - a lot of energy and magic was required to keep up a series of blasts, especially large ones- and the Canadian was right-royally sick of being looked over. This was why he'd taken the liberty of casting a line into the lower reaches of hell, hoping a big fish would bite.

No joy, apparently.

"Alfred Jones, what are you?" he asked wearily.

Another volley of cannon-fire laughter ricocheted around the room, "You're a funny one, Panzer. Sometimes I'm Dezba, sometimes I'm Red. What are the terms of your contract?"

"I would charge you to be my familiar, to help me in battle and stay by my side," at least Dezba sounded a little more impressive than _Alfred_, "Showing up the Magi Council tonight at their gala wouldn't go amiss either. What are your terms?"

"Term, singular; don't send me back. Hell is fucking boring. I accept your terms, do you accept mine?" A sword appeared in the demon's hands, a straight, double-blade of cold steel that reached at least two-and-a-half foot in length. It looked well-used, but also well cared for. The blade was polished and sharpened, but there were nicks, and there was what looked suspiciously like dried blood on the cross hilt. The pommel was topped with a stone too bloody to be a ruby and too crystalline to be jasper.

"I accept," Matthew said quietly. The sword wasn't necessary. Only a drop of blood was needed for the contract. The mage pulled a dagger from its sheath at his wrist, driving the tip into his open palm; he held the cut above the summoning circle and let three drops of blood fall. The runes hissed and glowed, roiling on the floor. Tapping his index finger to the blade of his sword, Alfred let the same amount of his own, black blood drip onto the circle, which stopped glowing.

"Nice doing business with you," Alfred smiled wickedly, walking out of the runes to where Matthew stood, fingers pressed to the cut on his palm, which was deeper than he had intended for it to be. Tanned hands took hold of Matthew's pale one, pressing his fingers back and palm up with surprising gentleness. A long, reptilian tongue snaked its way from between the demon's lips and licked slowly at the mage's bloody palm.

Letting go of the other's hand, the demon pressed his own blackened finger to the surprised Canadian's lips. He'd read about this. This was a double binding, to make sure that he didn't break the contract. A shiver ran down his spine as he opened his mouth and Alfred finger stroked over his tongue, blood sickly sweet to the taste. Bright blue eyes were half lidded as he pulled his finger from Matthew's mouth, popping the finger into his own for a second before drawing it out; cut healed.

"Now, you were saying about this evening?"

~====o)0(o====~

The pair of them stood at the door, Matthew absolutely mortified, and Alfred utterly relaxed.

"Panzer Magier," the doorman said, "I am afraid that you cannot permit your familiar into the hall with that thing," he gestured distastefully at Alfred's sword.

"There are certain aspects of our familiars that we cannot control, sir. As I'm sure any mage will tell you. Unfortunately, that sword is something I can do nothing about," the Canadian smiled as politely as he could, while the demon to his left drew the offending blade and began to hack at the magnolia bushes that lined the entryway, "Oh dear, he appears to be getting bored."

"Fine, fine! Just get it away from the flowers!" the irate doorman shrieked, waving the mage through. Sheathing his sword, Alfred sniffed the other man as he passed.

"Fighting mad," he purred, "You'll be seeing Old White soon. Tell him Red says hi," the demon's middle finger tapped the man's bare wrist before following Matthew's billowing blue robes inside.

~====o)0(o====~

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" Alfred asked the large and generally intimidating blond before him. Ludwig, another tank mage (this was possibly more a description than a title), and Matthew's superior. The German was a level ten, a rank to which few Panzers ever made it, their life expectancy wasn't that high. Of course, Matthew may have been a little …. Resentful of Ludwig, who had ascended the ranks rather quickly, despite being only a scant century old. He favoured brute strength rather than tact, and had muscled his way through more shit-storms than the Canadian thought possible. While Matthew, quite Matthew, had been steadily working his way up over five centuries and was still two ranks down. That was irritating.

Ludwig's nose wrinkled slightly at being addressed by a cocky man dressed in what appeared to be a patchwork of every military uniform in human history.

"I do not believe so," the thick German accent was slightly musical, at odds with the rest of his appearance.

"No," Alfred drawled, another round of cannon-fire echoing to the ceiling of the huge hall as he laughed, "I'm pretty sure I recognise you. You're that little shit who kicked up all the fuss in Berlin coupla decades back. Man, those were good times," Blue explosions bloomed in the American's eyes, and delighted flames licked at his smile.

Ludwig gave Matthew a withering look, "Your pet needs a muzzle, _Agt_."

"Yes, sir," the Canadian said at the exact same time as Alfred whined,

"Aw, you mean you don't recognise me? Dude! Well, I suppose I was wearing a little more," he waved a hand at himself, rag-tag outfit, morphing into a crisp black uniform with silver lining, his hair pushed back , and the sword at his side was an old-fashioned revolver. The red rag tied around his arm was wet and showed signs of having been white, "Glad you swopped sides though, 'cause I'd miss you loads. Best customer." A blood vessel in the German's temple throbbed, and he turned and marched towards the nearest waiter.

"Ah, Matthieu," Francis was a fire mage, and the only person in the room who ever seemed to be able to remember his name, "You have a new familiar." Now, what was really irritating, was that Matthew had been stopped at the door because Alfred was toting a sword (the American demon had returned to his scrappy attire once the offended German had left), but the Canadian was willing to bet anything that Francis had been allowed to waltz unhindered through the door even though he had a lit phoenix on his shoulder. The bird in question was currently giving the demon the evil eye.

"Yes sir, thank you for noticing," he smiled politely. Alfred on the other hand, half-swallowed the burger he had been wolfing down – where he'd got it, Matthew didn't really want to know - in order to whistle at the phoenix. Not just a whistle though. This was high, shrill and painful. And it also drew an answering shriek from the bird, which spread its flaming wings and beat the air with them. Unfortunately, as it was sitting on Francis' shoulder, beating the air included beating the Frenchman's head. This would have been alight, to a certain degree, had the phoenix not been (in the manner of phoenixes) aflame. Sparks leapt from the creatures wings, catching in Francis' hair and in the clothes of everyone in a ten-foot radius.

Alfred smiled, carefully patting Matthew down and smothering the flames while the flabbergasted Canadian mage blurted every single apology he could muster to cover his laughter. He couldn't help it. The sight of Francis dancing around screeching swearwords was really quite amusing.

~====o)0(o====~

By the time it came to dance, there was only one person at the gala that Alfred had not insulted, irritated, annoyed or enraged, and he seemed unduly proud of that fact. Matthew was in two minds about this. Half of him was positively mortified at the unmitigated offense his new familiar was causing, and the other half of him wanted to slap the demon on the back in congratulations. It wasn't often that someone managed to piss off the entire Magi Council (bar one) in the space of thirty minutes, after all.

"I wish you'd give me a straight answer," Matthew sighed, watching the other equals dance (even on such celebratory events, only those of the same level danced together), "Demons aren't supposed to lie."

"I haven't lied to you," Alfred answered, his tone hurt, "I've just omitted a couple of key truths, but I haven't lied at all. As if I could be that unawsome."

"Why won't you tell me who you are then? How you know so much about everyone here?" the Canadian grumbled sourly.

The demon's unnaturally blue eyes regarded the mage he was bound to, a thousand atomic mushroom clouds billowing in them, "I'm not sure if I want to tell you before you figure it out. And as for that, everyone here is a battle mage, so it's simple enough."

Matthew looked away, unable to meet that gaze. There was something intimidatingly intense about the way Alfred looked at him. Like he could see every moment the Canadian had lived in his eyes and wasn't judging him for it. He was impartial and indiscriminate, and that, in a way, was terrifying. At any moment Alfred could turn the scalding oil of his knowledge on Matthew and strip away his defences only to attack the weakness within.

But the demon said nothing, instead waving his hand dismissively at himself (the signal for yet another of his endless costume changes), and much like a dealer would flip a deck of cards, Alfred's tatty attire melted into a set of flowing ceremonial robes to match his master's. The only difference being that the American's were carmine red.

"We're not equals," he said with a low bow, holding his hand out for Matthew's, "But it'd be great if you'd dance with me?" The mage frowned at the hand before meeting the demon's armour-piercing eyes, playful sparks leapt in their fires, and he threw caution to the winds, taking the offered hand and being towed towards the polished wooden floor.

Their right hands met as they circled. Alfred's was too hot, but not sweaty, his skin was just too warm, and Matthew's felt too cold by comparison. The Canadian could have sworn that he saw smoke rising from their joined palms. Two steps left; Alfred pawed at the ground, his feet lifting and falling heavily, a horses shoes sparking on cobbled streets. Clattering nervously as it sensed the imminent attack its rider was unaware of. A quick jump was a soldier, praying for his life as he hurled himself over the lip of a stinking trench into no-man's land.

Changing hands, they circled right, some unknown predatory beast circling its breathless prey in the velvety darkness of its nocturnal hunting grounds. Two steps right, the limping soldier dragged himself, only to freeze as he heard the soft click of a landmine. Another jump as an explosion hurled a policeman through a bank window. Water boiled as a bomb was tested. Matthew and Alfred linked arms, still circling like rival vultures over a rotting corpse.

The visions were beginning to make the Canadian mage dizzy as they danced. Alfred raised his right leg, as did Matthew, and together they fell into space, feeling the ground zoom towards them as a dogfight roared, whined and spat in their ears. Their feet touched the ground again; a burning building laughed around them, sparks hissing in their clothes and skin. The demon's breath was rank against Matthew's skin, hot and wet, reeking of hot death and cold steel.

Two right feet slid back across the polished wood, sinking the two men into equal dips at the same time as they heard the scream of metal, a battleship's hull buckling as a torpedo ripped into its skin and dragged it to the ocean's floor. The blood-thirsty cries of a thousand different nations echoed in their minds, war hymns, battle paeans, whoops, screams, hollers, bellows, laughs and ululations forms a macabre symphony as the unheard string ensemble ceased their playing and the two men, mage and demon arose from their lunge.

"So, Red," Matthew said, his voice hoarse as though it had been him screaming, "Should I expect the rest of your merry band of players?"

"No," Alfred's voice held the Gatling cadence of a chuckle, "Old White was never bound like the rest of us, Black went in his own way – what with all these Feed The World schemes, there's not much place for him. White went a bit off; sometime around the 1930s he started mumbling some shit about Penicillin and I haven't seen or heard from him since. It's just me."

"The last," the mage murmured, hardly daring to believe the sympathy in his own voice as the horseman lead him out of the hall, which was beginning to smoke around the curtains and into the cool night. Angered yells poured in thick black clouds from the marble antechamber and the red glow of laughing flames flickered up the walls. Yells turned to shrieks and shrieks turned to howls. Explosions burst like fireworks where mages battled inside, windows shattering, making the roaring flames crackle higher still.

"The power is yours now," War smiled, taping the faint white scar he had licked earlier that afternoon, "What are you going to do with it?"

Matthew smiled dazedly, his lips feeling numb, but his eyes bright and clear. He controlled War, as much as War could be controlled. He held the fraying, snapping leash of a rabid dog.

"Whatever I want, Al," he answered, thinking of no better answer, and knowing that there wasn't one.

"You stick with me, Mattie," Alfred's hand smelt like blood as it cupped the mage's cheek, hot lips tickling against warm ones like the tip of a blade, "You'll go far."


End file.
